The Sky's Wrath

Planet Earth has seen wars and blood spilled. The globe's crust beheld terrors for centuries spent. Long did these lands bear catastrophes upon their precious stones and soil. Yet the ancestral skies and ocean have not forsaken punishing the ancient grounds for grave errors none holds the ken to.

Silence reigns over the ebony land and the sapphire waters. The sky, once pure blue and clear, summons its darker grey twin. A face, solemnly seen in these hidden islands, lacks the tranquility and openness of its former counterpart.

The proud waves, adorned with snowy salt, hug the shore fiercely. One, weak compared to its mother, fingers the palms bordering a nearby forest, swearing the fulfillment of a promise yet to come. A patch of the setting sun ostensibly seems kidnapped from the sky and discarded on the cream-colored sands.

Not one, but many! Scattered before the vengeful waves, orange specks shimmy up a sandhill. Their round shells look like the only thing they possess for the unknowing eye. And unknowing it is indeed! For bound to these exquisite shells are eight tiny legs with soft hairs emblazoning the white-patterned crabs. Their bulbous eyes protrude out of their little body, gifting the arachnid limitless sight.

Hurrying up the hill, a myriad of crabs clicks their pincers and snap their legs together, bidding their companions hasten the march. Gradually, the orange spots dip into the sandhill until emptiness is left but tiny footprints decorating the sand bed. The deep blue waves rise above one another, jousting to terminate the friendship that dominated the sands. They don't retreat with ease. Daring the vulnerable palms with their resilience and the silken beach with their beauty, those waves are beautiful but never pretty.

The loatheful sky sneers down the miserable clearing, and like a crown atop a queen's brow, bright white lightning propagates across the majestic ether, a crystalline wreath of violet light. She is not done thus far! The fierce wind shrieks upon her call, shredding a young leaf from its parents as ruthless as any winter gale.

Simultaneously, thunder growls in sickening pleasure, requesting fear from all life in hidden creaks of the island. 

The elder palms shudder; the younger ones shiver. Today is here; the time is near for old trees to pass away. Their wan leaves give in to the demonic wind, withering away like ashes on a forgotten breeze. Their wrinkled trunks bend this way and that, provoking caws from a flock of crows residing there.

Dark hissing sounds echo throughout the islands like jinn carefully plotting petrifying scenes in the blackness of days such as these. They become whispers of a nightmare the lands recognize, but cannot remember. The soil stares them down with the audacity of a dauntless lioness. But the sounds heighten to howls of anger. It is rare for one to hear these voices elicited from a phenomenon thought to be so magnificent. Verily, seldom does rain liberate its pain and loneliness, when elsewhere it is peaceful and serene. Its patter on the brown soil screams every droplet's frustration and redemption.

But is it the rain who is forlorn or the clouds, bound to the unrivaled skies for the end of time? Do they...

Blinding light flares across the egotistical sky, striking out at the former patch of soil, now nothing but cinders, black smoke, and burnt animal flesh. If the sky possesses supremacy, lightning seizes unequivocal glory. Thunder roars terrifyingly, beckoning the rain to cease their cascades and the winds to quit their journey.

Rocks let out a sigh of relief and gratitude; the young palms beg mercy and forgiveness. Despite soaking the soils and shrouding the trees with clear liquid, rain has not taken its toll on the island today.

The royal sky cackles with vile wickedness. Lightning and thunder retreat spitefully, disciples of the most dominant being on Earth.

The ocean sends a final wave on the pitiful vacant lands. Until next time, it seems to say.